


Be Still My Soul

by dragonofdispair



Series: Hymns of the Guiding Hand [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Crush, Crush at First Sight, M/M, Police investigation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Mirage winning the Race of Adaptus for Hound was the first raindrop of a hurricane, then Prowl meeting Jazz is the second. From simple Enforcer in Praxus to intelligence officer in Iacon, Prowl transitions from one life to another on the eve of a revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/gifts).



> Request from Rizobact: “Since you’ve already said they’re a thing in this ‘verse, could we just see how they meet?”. Except I couldn’t just write that one little scene; the whole thing kept *growing*. I hope you’re happy with yourself, Riz.
> 
> Many thanks to 12drakon for beta’ing this monster.

_Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past_

_All safe and blessed we shall meet at last_

          — Kathrina von Schlegal, _“Be Still, My Soul”_

.

.

.

Prowl knew who Mirage was, of course. Nobles didn’t often bond for love (at least not in Prowl’s observation) so he’d done his research carefully when his name had appeared on the list of registered racers. That this particular noble apparently had at least two lower caste paramours and none of his own caste to compete for was noteworthy. It had been the Enforcer report on the confrontation with his creator that had been especially interesting though. That caste was always careful to keep its conflicts hidden from the outside, especially if the conflict was within a clade. That it had grown virulent enough to devolve into verbal assaults and police intervention… well. Mirage obviously wasn’t a typical noble.

Primal confidant or not, though, if he’d told Prowl to take the data chip directly to Prime he’d have known the offer of help was false. No matter _who_ Mirage was, a data chip wasn’t getting him past the Prime’s guards. Idly, he wondered what the message contained.

He’d thought that, perhaps, Mirage had some pull with the priests when he’d been instructed to take the message to them. His research had also turned up that the noble was one of the few who was truly religious and who spent a great deal of his time at the temples so it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Maybe the priests would be swayed by his situation, though, as far as he knew, what Lockdown was doing was within the bounds of legality for the Race. But it was possible that Mirage and the priests would know of a loophole that Prowl, as someone outside the rules and traditions of religion, didn’t. So he’d done as instructed. He was loathe to bother one of the busy priests of Adaptus, but Mirage had said “any of them”, so he approached one of the familiar forms of a local priest of Mortilus.

“Enforcer Prowl,” Silverblast greeted cordially. He was a senior priest, a judge, at the temple in Prowl’s district. Like all Enforcers, Prowl was familiar with him, both in his role as the minister to the (technically) military caste Enforcers, and as a judge in criminal cases. For a moment, he hesitated. Did Barricade’s influence reach into the courts as well?

_Any of them_. Mirage had seemed so sure. Prowl decided to trust. “Priest-Judge Silverblast,” he returned the greeting. “I have a message.” He held out the chip.

Familiar with this Enforcer’s idiosyncrasies, Silverblast said nothing of the formality and simply took the chip. Prowl began to turn away, certain that whatever Mirage had wanted conveyed to a priest no longer required his presence, even if the message was meant to help him, but the priest said, “Stay, in case I need a return message delivered.”

He didn’t know how he’d manage to get close to Mirage after the Race — during it would be impossible — if Silverblast did want a return message delivered and he nearly said so. If necessary, he’d point this out after the priest was finished. In truth, Prowl hadn’t expected the other mech to take the time to read the message now, with the race going on.

But he did. The downloaded message only took a second and then Silverblast was regarding Prowl speculatively. Again he wondered just what Mirage had said on that chip.

Silverblast didn’t elaborate. “Come with me, Enforcer.”

He wondered if he should, but none of his superiors were around to countermand that order and Silverblast _was_ a judge. Prowl followed.

 

***

 

Once again Prowl thought how, if Mirage had told him he was sending him to the Prime, Prowl would not have believed him. That’s… probably why he’d sent him to a priest instead. With instructions that the _priest_ was to take him to Prime. Silently Prowl updated his tactical database to include the information that Mirage was much more devious than his records indicated. Most nobles were. His calculations accounted for that, usually, but nobles often couldn’t see beyond their own agendas and assisting Prowl — _manipulating_ Prowl — did not align with Mirage’s current apparent agenda of winning the Race and his bondmate. Prowl would not make the mistake of underestimating Mirage again in that regard. 

Prime… Prowl’s doorwings folded down, flat against his back in submission at the mere memory.

He’d certainly seen larger mechs, but was unable to imagine a mech with more _presence_ than Optimus. He shook, reminding himself that he was cowering — not cowering; _submitting_ — to a memory, but his doorwings refused to obey.

Silverblast’s presence had gotten them to within the last ring of defenses around the Prime. Only a single bodyguard and the rest of his entourage had stood between them. And then the priest had been beckoned forward to deliver the datachip. Prowl had waited, and despite actually _watching_ the big mech, he’d still been surprised when one large hand had settled on his shoulder. For all the mech’s kindness, Prowl had trembled. This… this was the _Prime_. 

Such demonstrations were entirely unlike him, but he’d still nearly flung himself prostrate and only the demigod’s own hand on his plating prevented him. He would have knelt, saluted, _something_ , but to do so would be to pull himself from that touch, and it was obvious the Prime did not want him to do so. Still, Prowl’s doorwings tucked down as tightly as they could. “Sir?” he managed, like he was speaking to the highest of his chain of command — which he was — and still felt that it was woefully inadequate.

The Prime had only smiled at him. “Report, soldier” — it wasn’t quite a military bark, but it was firm enough that any thought of deception, dissembling or omission fled from his processor. He did not wish to speak of his troubles — shame curled through his very spark at the thought — but that was a command, from the highest authority short of Primus Himself, and he could not disobey.

He was certain that shame would consume him utterly when his words brought pity to Prime’s optics, and he’d wanted to reject the offered comfort when Prime traced a delicate pattern across the smaller mech’s armor, but this was Prime, and Prowl stood still and at attention like the soldier he was.

“Mirage pleads your case quite eloquently, though I’d expect nothing less from him,” Prime had said thoughtfully, “and there is no deception in your words. Nor,” he said a bit more sharply, as though to admonish Prowl for some sort of protest, which he would never have thought of making, “do I judge you to be at any fault based on what evidence I currently have.” 

That was… more of a comfort than a more definite, compassionate, statement would have been. Prowl was a creature of investigation, deduction and evidence. It was not in his nature to find comfort in platitudes. He had not lied, by word or omission, in his testimony, and based on that the Prime judged him not at fault. It was possible evidence could come up later that indicated otherwise, and if so Prowl would accept that judgement too, but for now…

“Yes sir,” was all he could say. He hoped Prime would not ask anything more of him.

And he didn’t, simply turning to the nearest guard, the commander. “Ironhide. Take Prowl back to Shadowglide and have him sent to Iacon.” He looked back to Prowl. “Gods willing, your stalker will not win the Race, but some precautions are nevertheless in order. You can’t be Chosen if you’re not in Praxus. We’ll sort the rest out after the chaos of the Race dies down. This _is_ Adaptus’ vorn.”

Ironhide was not happy — verbally so — about being commanded away from his charge’s side. Prowl agreed with him, but where Ironhide's position as a friend allowed him the luxury of protest, Prowl’s own position did not. In the end, they both went, though Ironhide left him with the shuttle and returned to Prime’s side as soon as possible. As was proper.

“Are you alright, sir?” that was Shadowglide, the shuttle, and Prowl shook himself free of the memory and finally untucked his doorwings, allowing them to rest in their natural, high position.

“Fine.”

The EM field that pervaded the shuttle’s passenger space was distinctly skeptical, but he did not press the issue. “We’ve just entered Iacon airspace. I’ve been told that you’ll be met by someone who can show you to your rooms at the landing strip.”

“Thank you.”

For the first time in a long while, Prowl allowed himself to relax somewhat. He had not _wanted_ to leave Praxus, but it was not his place to argue with a Primal decree. Now that he was out of both Lockdown and Barricade’s reach — and an investigation for misconduct underway soon — he felt safe. He wondered if he’d be allowed to contact the others at the precinct, such as Bluestreak, who would worry, or it he was to be kept out of communication until the investigation was over, to keep from influencing their testimony.

When a swift little servant with the unassuming name of Wheels met him on the runway, Prowl thought he’d be escorted to the local Enforcer barracks for his stay, or to a safe house for witnesses, or even to one of the temples.

Instead he was taken to the palace. He balked and tried overriding the servant, telling him to take him someplace else — a cot in the local prison would do — but his room assignment had apparently been arranged by comm by the Prime, and the palace staff was expecting him.

So he was ensconced in a room larger and more lavish than any he’d seen before. He’d noted with approval that once they’d gotten beyond the public areas, the layout of the palace was markedly different than the schematic available to the public. He approved of the precaution. He was unsure what he was to do now. Curious, he tested the door. It opened at his approach, so he wasn’t locked in, but the guards would likely not approve of him wandering regardless.

Which left him with very little to occupy his time. He still didn’t know if he would be allowed to contact Bluestreak and the others, and didn’t want to preemptively disobey, potentially disrupting the investigation, so that was not an option. He checked the outcome of the Race and was relieved to note that Lockdown had _not_ won and that Mirage had. Curious as to how a noble could accomplish such a thing, he watched the whole race, following the cameras that focused on the blue and white mech.

When he was done he added _combat training, integrated weapons, infiltration skills,_ and _alpha ability: invisibility — exact specifics unknown_ to his file. His tactical computer chewed on that for a while and eventually came to the conclusion of _secret bodyguard to the Prime_. After only a moment of further thought, he encrypted the file and firewalled it away as deeply as he could. _Classified_. He wanted to think that he had enough loyalty to the Prime that he would have done that regardless, but he could not deny there was an element of gratitude there.

 

***

 

Energon was delivered on a prompt schedule without his having to inquire after it. The metals were distinctly Iaconian and gave him a pang of homesickness, but he wasn’t inclined to protest. He hoped it wasn’t coming out of his own saved up rations-chits, given the quality and the fact that he wasn’t working right now and didn’t want to be completely without resources when this was over. A space in the barracks and three cubes of midgrade were guaranteed by his station, but there were comforts he was inclined to purchase.

He was seen to by a medic, an abrasive individual who had reluctantly complimented First Aid’s treatment of his injuries from the bomb-threat crash and declared that all he needed now was sufficient rest.

After three orns he thought it was possible he’d been forgotten, but the room included a network terminal. Some experimentation showed it had been set to his clearance level, exactly as the one in the barracks had been, so he spent his time gathering and sifting information. All information on the aftermath of the Race simply indicated that anyone capable of dealing with his situation was still too busy dealing with that to deal with him as well. He knew he was exceedingly lucky to have caught the attention of the Prime — and for the Prime to _care_ enough to intervene — and he was currently safe, so he could not complain that he was not a priority.

A hospital report on Lockdown’s condition made him smile slightly. The list of injuries was extensive. He added _strategic capabilities_ and _lateral thinking in combat_ to Mirage’s classified file. And then added a further warning on just how dangerous Sunstorm’s alpha ability was to the seeker’s.

He then moved onto analyzing Iacon’s criminal patterns as he would in Praxus, forwarding his findings to the Enforcer chief since he didn’t have access to the officers who might be actively investigating those cases, and didn’t want to be seen as interfering.

That finally got him noticed.

The officer was flanked by two palace guards when Prowl opened the door, marveling to himself that he was actually given a choice of whether to accept visitors. He was a standard Iaconian Enforcer frame with a small, fast alt mode designed more for chasing down speeding infractions than anything else. White and blue plating was crisply accented with green, and very professional, marred only by a tattoo of the Matrix on his cheek. Still Prowl was wary. He didn’t know how far Lockdown and Barricade’s plans had sunk into his own precinct or if the Captain there had any influence here. 

The Enforcer withstood the suspicion with only a knowing look. “I’m Lt. Springarm and I’ve been assigned to investigate your case by Prime and my captain. I’m here to take your statement. If you’re uncomfortable with just me one of the palace guards can certainly stay.”

Prowl considered this, then nodded his assent and moved aside to let them in. He noted, as the door closed, that the second guard took up a place outside the room even as the first took up his position inside it.

There was no energon to offer, so Prowl didn’t, simply taking the chair he’d found suited him best, and allowing Springarm to choose one that would facilitate the polite interrogation.

Enforcers interviewing Enforcers was always an interesting prospect. Even with the slight differences in Praxan and Iaconian techniques, they both knew the procedures so well that they followed them like a dance. Because he was the victim, Springarm let Prowl dictate their places in the room. The victim of a crime chose the first chair so they’d be comfortable and based on that choice, Prowl knew exactly which chair Springarm would choose to ask his questions. They both shrugged their shoulder-kibble in knowing acknowledgement. The guard just stood stoically by the door and watched

“I was hoping to wait for Prime to be available before taking your statement. He’s generally very accommodating of our requests. In cases where the evidence can potentially come down to one mech’s word against another’s, having him present is always a gift to Mortilus.”

That meant that his presence somehow helped cut through the questions of which mech was lying, so the judge was more sure that his judgement was the proper one. His doorwings tucked unconsciously at the mention of Prime and he remembered how the big mech had so easily declared that there was _no deception in his words_ and he didn’t doubt the truth of it.

Springarm noted the unconscious gesture and chuckled slightly. “He has that effect on mechs sometimes.”

Prowl didn’t doubt the truth of that either. “If it will expedite the investigation I am certainly willing to wait.”

“Are you sure? Given everything that’s going on, getting a hold of Prime might take a while. Sometimes the secretaries that filter his messages are a bit overzealous about filtering out ours, so we send our requests through Mirage, but…”

Mirage was unavailable due to his recent bonding. “I understand.”

“If that’s the way you prefer it. Captain said you seemed bored is all.” Springarm put away his recorder. “It’s not a good idea for you and I to get too close, but you’re not a prisoner here, and you can request a guide from the staff.”

Prowl had no desire to play tourist during his stay here, but it was good to know he wasn’t restricted to this suite. “When will I be allowed to contact my colleagues in Praxus? And what were they told?”

“Right.” Springarm laughed. “You’re in protective custody. We’ve implied it’s due to some threats we’ve received from someone involved in one of your previous cases, but the fact that your own captain’s under suspicion has made it a tricky fiction to hold to. Especially given the timing, curse Adaptus. I’ll hurry and get their statements, so you can let them know you’re okay. Anyone specific you’re wanting to talk to?”

“Bluestreak,” Prowl would have liked to give a more specific name, but clones did not have Vector Sigma given names, so he rattled off his colleague’s serial number instead. The others could wait, he decided, as long as they knew he was uninjured.

“Right. I’ll let you know when your interview’s been scheduled.” Springarm left, neither lingering nor hurrying. 

The guard stayed a moment longer. “Anything I can have someone bring you, sir?”

What more could he need? This suite had everything the barracks had and more. “I’m fine.”

“If you say so, sir,” Prowl saw him take a position across the hall from his door as it closed. For his protection or to keep an eye on him? Likely both. This _was_ the Primal palace and he was a stranger here.

The next time the door chimed for entry, only an orn later, it was a mech Prowl only vaguely recognized from the Race. He’d been in the Prime’s viewing box and Prowl belatedly started the formal greetings of an Enforcer speaking to a noble, but the mech stopped him with a disarming smile. “Just a surveyor; don’t need all that. My name’s Trailbreaker.”

A surveyor… laborer caste, and not a palace servant. What was he doing here? What had he been doing in the Prime’s viewing box?

Maybe he needed an Enforcer? Given how far out of his jurisdiction he was, that thought should not have been so agreeable, but it was. 

“I’m Prowl. What can I do for you?”

The black mech smiled again. “Well, my best friend’s… busy right now, and Escutcheon told me you could probably use a guide down in the city.”

Oh. He wanted to socialize. That… never worked well with Enforcers and laborers. “I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” Trailbreaker looked mournful. “I got the concert tickets _ages_ ago and now one of them’s going to waste.”

Concert tickets? Despite himself he was curious. “Waste?”

“Yeah…” he drawled, “You see, I was planning to go with a friend of mine, but some idiot went and nearly killed himself in some Race, and Hound’s decided that means he can ignore me for the next… decaorn or so.” Despite any potential bitterness in the words it was clear he regarded both Hound and Mirage fondly, and did not begrudge them their bonding time together. “So now I’ve got an extra ticket, and I figured I could make him jealous by taking someone else with me.”

Prowl really shouldn’t be considering this. It was a bad idea. These friendships always ended badly and he still had plenty of analysis he could occupy his time with.

“Jazz and Blaster are the best performers in Iacon…” Trailbreaker wheedled.

Iacon wasn’t his jurisdiction anyway, Prowl decided. It would do no harm to socialize. Just this once. He nodded his assent and Trailbreaker broke out into a grin.

“Until All are One, right?” he said, though it didn’t sound quite like the prayer it was.

 

***

 

The concert somehow turned into energon at a local Praxan café with the rest of Trailbreaker’s friends afterward. Prowl… wasn’t certain how this had happened. They were at the concert and he’d been embarrassingly entranced by the lead dancer… Jazz… and then somehow he’d ended up here. It should have been disturbing, but the concert was all he could think about.

Trailbreaker nudged him with his shoulder. “One concert, and Prowl’s already got a crush.”

Immediately Prowl’s doorwings drew back, offended, but he didn’t deny it.

Circuit, who had met them here at the café looked interested. “Really? On which one? As if I couldn’t guess… Jazz or Blaster, right?”

“Jazz,” Meltpoint, who had attended the concert with them answered before Prowl could. The others at the table all nodded in understanding. Jazz, it seemed, was the focus of a great many ‘crushes’.

All the more reason for Prowl to never consider acting on his unexpected fascination. It would likely pass by the time he returned to Praxus, and in the meantime Jazz certainly didn’t need another… he mentally groped for another word but his initial one was only accurate… stalker.

Prowl shivered unconsciously. No. He would not sink so low. 

Best to ignore this fascination. It was the only way he could live with himself, he decided as they went their separate ways for the night.

He tried simply not going to another concert. If he did not attend, then this fascination would fade swiftly.

Unfortunately Trailbreaker continued to be inclined toward inviting him to social activities. He tried refusing, but the black mech was persistent. And Trailbreaker seemed to have the run of the palace. Prowl had never thought of himself as particularly social among the other Enforcers in the barracks, but having only Trailbreaker as his single social contact made him aware of what was missing.

And Trailbreaker seemed determined to ensure Prowl’s crush didn’t fade. Even though he avoided the concerts… Jazz performed at venues other than the concert halls. They all did, Blaster and the others, together and singly. When Trailbreaker showed up in the morning of his next half-orn off to take Prowl to another café for energon, it was Jazz crooning an upbeat tune to those stopping in for their morning ration before work. Trailbreaker's next full-orn, he somehow convinced Prowl to go on a tour of Iacon, and the Enforcer had to slam on his own brakes hard enough to make them squeal before reflex took over and he joined the pursuit for a joyrider. Who happened to be Jazz.

It was apparently a common occurrence, because the performer was making jokes about it to the audience during the outdoor concert they stumbled upon on their way back from the Celestial Spires.

Even the jokes were charming.

Back in his room at the palace he managed to focus for an entire _joor_ on the analysis before he found himself downloading Jazz’s performance schedule. The next morning he managed to delay himself from going to the café to listen until Jazz was packing up his equipment to leave. He entered just as the other mech left and Prowl ruthlessly stomped on the feeling of disappointment. He _wasn’t_ going to inflict his presence on a mech who didn’t want him there. 

Besides he was an _Enforcer,_ and moreover, as soon as he could he was going back to Praxus. His tactical computer helpfully informed him that this failed excursion was the first time he’d left his room of his own accord.

He stalked back to his room at the palace. This time he was determined to use the schedule to completely avoid the mech for the duration of his stay in Iacon. He contemplated going down to the precinct and telling Sprinarm he’d changed his mind, he’d like to have his statement taken as soon as possible, but he was sure messages had been sent to Prime and it was conceivable that one would cross his desk, and —

— and his doorwings tucked unconsciously, and he set that course of action aside. So he was staying.

.

.

.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

He… orbited. That was the best word Prowl could come up with for what he was doing over the next few orns. The schedule said Jazz would be somewhere, and he’d stay in his room as long as he could before being drawn in like a comet falling towards its parent star. Then, just like a comet, once he’d come as close as he dared, he’d fling himself away, far away, back to his room to shake and mewl, memories of how Lockdown had treated him feeding into guilt over his own, shameful behavior, only to do it all over again a joor or an orn later. To the rhythm of that terrible, terrible schedule.

Work. Work was the answer. Work had always been the answer to whatever social upset he’d encountered. But this time he had no work. Nothing of urgency. Just combing through the local precinct’s files and analyzing them, which annoyed the chief as much as it assisted him.

When Springarm returned, it at least interrupted Prowl’s… orbits.

Not that it actually was a relief.

He opened the door, still marveling that he had that much control over this lavish room to see _Prime_ doing his best to lurk unobstrusively behind the Iaconian officer, and all thoughts of Jazz fled. That annoying countdown to Jazz’s next scheduled appearance that his tactical systems had started supplying even vanished, as his every system reprioritized themselves to focus on bearer of the Matrix. It wasn’t a relief, because he had not ever been programmed with this situation in mind, but the social patterns of submission to a higher authority were at least familiar.

Prime sighed. “At ease, Prowl. I’m just here to listen.”

Prowl wasn’t sure he actually _could_ go to ease, but he tried. “Of course, sir.”

Springarm chuckled. “I’m here to take your statement, regarding our investigation. May we come in?” he finished, voice filled with irony. Prowl froze, just for a moment, optics still locked on the Prime. This was his palace. Prowl’s permission had no place here. “Prowl,” Springarm said with just just enough of a commanding snap that the other Enforcer’s optics locked on his. He almost saluted before stopping himself. “Focus on me. Prime’s alpha ability means he can tell when a mech’s lying, even by omission, and that’s the _only_ reason he’s here. _I’m_ your interviewer. Focus on _me_.”

Gold optics flicked to Prime briefly, just in time to see him nod in agreement.

Prowl couldn’t bring his doorwings up out of their posture of absolute submission, but he nodded his understanding and agreement. “Please come in.”

It was hard turning his back to lead them deeper into the suite, but an encouraging flutter of Springarm’s EM field got him through that. _Focus on me_. He balked again when he remembered the chairs. Procedure. He was the victim. The victim chose the first chair. How was he supposed to choose his seat before _Prime?_ A crash threatened, but Springarm guided him through that too, pushing him to the chair he’d chosen before — which _was_ the chair he’d have chosen for himself again, had he been thinking clearly — before gesturing to another seat for Prime, the one at the desk, which partially removed him from the conversation, though Prowl could still feel the fuzzy flicker of that powerful EM field at the edge of his own. It helped, though, not to be standing in it, swamped by the Prime’s powerful regard. And finally Springarm chose a seat for himself, the same he’d taken on his last visit. Procedure. Regardless of the Prime’s presence as witness, this conversation was between an Enforcer and a person of interest in the investigation. 

This could never happen in Praxus. The Prime…he might be willing to take the time to assist the occasional investigation here in Iacon, but there was no way he would ever travel to Praxus for such a thing. Still, despite the strangeness this was just another sort of procedure and Prowl took comfort in that. Procedure. He relaxed, somewhat, though his doorwings never budged.

Springarm nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you for your forbearance, Prowl. I just have a few questions.”

“Of course,” he managed. Answering questions. That was something he could do.

“Good. Could you please tell me about Lockdown…?”

Answering questions about Lockdown and Barricade and how the two of them had backed him into potentially accepting a coerced bonding once Lockdown won the Race was excruciating. It was not better going through it all the second time around. Shame crawled through his circuits. Springarm's questions laid him bare, brought things to light that he’d ignored or overlooked.

When he was done, Springarm informed him that the first round of interviews in Praxus had been completed, and if he wished to contact Bluestreak it was now permitted. Prowl was to consider himself still in protective custody, and as such could not reveal where he was or talk about the status of the investigation. Prowl easily agreed to these.

Prime lingered as the Enforcer left.

“At ease, Prowl,” he said before the Praxan could tense up with worry. “I just… I’ve been informed that you would perhaps be happier with some sort of work befitting your caste to do while you here.”

That wasn’t a question, but Prime paused as though seeking confirmation, so Prowl responded with “Yes sir.”

Though there was no crinkle of discomfiture in that overwhelming EM field, Prime’s optics took on an uncomfortable expression for a moment. “If that is the case, and you are under _no obligation_ to accept this, but if that’s the case, Mirage has a job he’d like you to do.” Prowl almost protested that he was an Enforcer. Military caste, law enforcement subcaste. Not a noble or a servant. Prime must have read something in his EM field, because his own modulated to project calm and understanding. “Officially you’ll be working for Ironhide.”

He wondered at that arrangement for a moment before his own classified files pinged him with the reminder of Mirage’s status. His tactical computer analyzed the offer in light of that classified data and he agreed with the conclusion. Then the whole train of thought was buried under thick firewalls, leaving him vaguely confused as to why he nodded in agreement and understanding. “Of course, sir.”

Prime fidgeted, then sighed. “Just let any of the guards know. Good orn, Prowl.”

He let himself out.

As soon as Prime was gone, Prowl’s thoughts returned to Jazz and the countdown to the performer’s next appearance came up on his HUD. With a growl of anger at himself he stomped out the door to tell Escutcheon that he’d be accepting the offer to work with Ironhide and was willing to start immediately.

 

***

 

It had taken some arguments on his part to convince the guards that he truly wished to begin work now. No, really, _right now_ was fine. He’d been slightly afraid that Mirage wouldn’t have whatever job he was to do ready, but when contacted, Mirage had a conference room in one of the palace’s many bomb shelters secured for their use. Prowl was more formally introduced to Ironhide, who was much more agreeable this time around, given that he wasn’t being required to leave Prime’s side to escort a stranger. 

Ironhide was a gruff old veteran. Definitely sparked military — a Vector Sigma spark, not a clone — and had been a bodyguard to Sentinel, even as he now was to Optimus. He was competent and no-nonsense and much kinder now that Prowl wasn’t an unknown. He brusquely gave Prowl the information he needed in order to operate as part of his unit, then a friendlier invitation to join himself and several others for high-grade after-shift. Prowl debated the offer — he wasn’t fond of the feeling of being intoxicated, but making social connections in his new, if potentially temporary, job was important — and agreed to meet him and any others at the specified location. 

Mirage…

Prowl disliked the unquantifiable. Loathed it. Quite honestly didn’t believe in it. 

And yet…

There was something about Mirage that was different from the kind stranger who’d first seen something worth helping in Prowl. Something Prowl couldn’t actually quantify. He wanted to think his recent bonding was the cause and tried to ignore it, but that loathsome, vague _dissonance_ nagged at him.

 _Military caste_ his tactical computer kept trying to conclude, though that was obviously untrue. Mirage had been noble — high noble, political subcaste — since he’d been sparked. He may have been forced by conflict with his creator to work as a lower noble, archivist subcaste, for a while, but he was no military mech. Bonding, _if_ he’d bonded a military mech could have accounted for that change, but Hound was no more military than Mirage had been— _was_. Than he _was_.

Perhaps the seeker Sunstorm… no. A few brief spark merges couldn’t account for his tactical systems’ insistence that he was in the presence of a veteran military mech, while all his data said that was ludicrous. To his knowledge, those spark merges had all been before Prowl had first met him at the start of the Race anyway.

Mirage smiled, and his EM field was so smooth with gratitude and polite affection that it couldn’t be entirely real, but even Prowl’s Enforcer programming designed to sort out truths from falsehoods couldn’t feel anything of his emotions beyond the deliberate modulation. It was a distinct contrast to the blunt honesty in Ironhide’s, which still prickled with wariness of Prowl and a sort of dislike, modified by trust and protectiveness, towards Mirage. Ironhide, that field said, remained in the room to protect Mirage, even if he didn’t particularly like him or think the noble truly needed it. 

“Thank you for accepting my offer.” Mirage spoke, a gentle voice with no static as befit one of his caste. Ironhide just snorted through his vents, standing back. Orientation and official position aside, Prowl was working for Mirage.

“I was looking for something to do, sir.”

A flicker of possibly-not-real humor matched a brief widening of Mirage’s smile. “While I think Ironhide would prefer that title, I think it best if you simply call me ‘Mirage’.”

“Yes, s…Mirage.” _Classified_ itched against his mind.

“Something to work on, then.” The noble didn’t fidget; his every movement was too controlled for that, but he rearranged the stack of data pads in front of him briefly. “I was impressed by your analysis of the Race participants. I found it very helpful. A gift from Adaptus and Mortilus, truly.” This was just polite small talk to begin the conversation (though it did tell him that it was his analytical abilities Mirage was most interested in at this time, rather than his other Enforcer skills), so he just nodded his acknowledgement. He perceived no flicker of offense when he didn’t take the opportunity to speak; Mirage just moved on. “So that’s what I’d like you to do here. Before I give you access to the terminal, though, I’d like to confirm you have classified data partitions.”

All military mechs did, even Enforcers. “Yes sir.”

“Mirage.”

“Yes, Mirage.”

Another flicker of not-real humor. “Do you mind if I check their integrity?”

Prowl’s first instinct, to deny someone he hardly knew access to his mind, warred with another, just as strong one, to allow it. He combed over his priority tree and found that when he’d accepted this position his chain of command had resorted itself. Barricade and the rest of his superiors in Praxus had been replaced with Prime, Mirage and Ironhide (in that order) with spaces for others to be filled when those three informed him of others he was expected to obey.

 _Secret bodyguard to the Prime_. This wasn’t just about firewalls, but about loyalty. And Mirage was his commanding officer. He nodded his assent and opened the armor plate on his wrist that covered his networking port and cord.

He expected Mirage’s mental touch to be careful and unpracticed, perhaps inadvertently clumsy, but it wasn’t. The noble certainly was careful, feather-light attention skimming across his programming and files, but was also polite and professional. Not clumsy at all. It was not the first time another had examined his thoughts, and he usually kept his mind silent so as not to distract the interrogator. Mirage’s skill, however, prompted his tactical systems to note that were he only slightly disoriented he wouldn’t even know Mirage was there, much less be capable of consciously defending his mind. Much more effective than the cruder methods employed by Spec Ops specialists in the military.

 _I know_ , Mirage responded to the unintentional thought. Somehow the lack of pride in that response was more disturbing than its presence would have been. _Shhh_ , Mirage soothed, _You’re not my enemy._

He — again unintentionally — made a notation in his own priority trees not to ever let himself become Mirage’s enemy.

 _You have a great deal more processing power than your specs indicate_ , Mirage changed the subject, and Prowl was glad of it.

_My alpha ability. All the offspring of my genitor had combat-related abilities. Mine is an anomaly._

_It means the gods have a special fate planned for you._

Given Mirage’s and his differing opinions on the veracity of the Cybertronian religion, he chose to neither agree nor disagree with that.

 _Your firewalls_ — Mirage did not press the issue of religion — _they’d be sufficient if you were really working for Ironhide as one of the guards, but with your permission I’d like to upgrade them._

Prime, Mirage and Ironhide, in that order. Classified. _Yes sir_.

The firewalls Mirage wrote for him were not like those of the military programmers the rest of Prowl’s code had originally been written by. They were complex, multi-tiered and adaptive. Almost poetry. Most secure was data that he needed Mirage or Prime’s authorization to access or repeat, and a second layer of firewalls that he needed to access for ornly use, but did not have the authorization to talk about or reveal during a casual interface. And finally there was his “public” thought-shell, secured only by his own standard firewalls. Together they sorted Prowl’s files into those three categories.

Prowl’s employment by Mirage, and everything he did for the noble, went into the most secured part of his mind, while the details of his protective custody and residence in Prime’s palace (including the actual layout of the non-public portions of the building) went into the second. Most of the rest of his life remained in the outermost shell. Including his current crush on Jazz, and he was embarrassed that his new commander knew of it, but Mirage didn’t comment, or give any indication that he cared.

He did pause when he saw the file Prowl had been maintaining on him. _Oh!_

 _I can delete it,_ Prowl offered. 

 _No. You came to these conclusions honestly, and deleting it now would leave you very confused as to why you’re working for me_. 

That was true. Together they buried the file under the most secured firewall.

When they were done, Prowl felt a bit dizzy. Not since he’d been sparked had so many of his files been rearranged at once, and he struggled to adapt. A crash threatened, but Mirage held it off, supporting him through it. _Thank you_ , he sent when the dizziness had subsided.

 _A gift for you_. Mirage put a small, self-deleting packet of data in his least secured thought-shell. _It contains a virus you can use in case you’re hacked, but also a message. If you’re ever in trouble go to a temple of Mortilus and give it to them. They’ll take care of you._

Mirage belonged to Mortilus. He was associated with the church. He possessed invisibility and infiltration abilities, combat training and integrated weapons that weren’t part of his original specs, advanced hacking skills. _Assassin_. He firewalled that thought under the deepest firewalls along with the rest of his classified file, but couldn’t hide it from the blue and white mech.

 _Not yet._ — Prowl couldn’t help but notice that even in rejecting that label, Mirage acknowledge he may have to play that role in the future. — _Spy._

 _And Hound?_ Was Mirage’s bonded also a Mortilus-spark?

_Hound and I are One, just as all sparks are part of Primus._

That was not an answer that invited further inquiry, so Prowl dropped it, deleting the entire line of questioning from his tactical systems.

Dizziness returned when they disconnected. His priority trees told him that he was in the presence of two superior officers and he needed to pay attention to them. He forced himself to do a soft reboot anyway, lest his crash despite Mirage’s efforts earlier.

When he did focus on them again, Ironhide was tiredly fiddling with a data pad, bored, and Mirage smiled, modulating that deceptive EM field to show approval. In light of what Prowl knew about him, it meant nothing about Mirage’s true feelings, but it wasn’t impatience or anger he chose to project, which was something. He wondered at the closeness between this noble and the Prime. How could a mech whose nature was to ferret out deception rely on the council of one whose it was to deceive? How could Mirage stand to associate with someone who could see through his lies?

None of his business. “I am ready to begin work.”

“Excellent,” that earned him a smile. “Your assignment and all the files you need can be accessed on the terminal,” he gestured to the table and sure enough there was an input port inset under a discreet panel by his chair. “Do you wish company, or to be left alone?”

Which answer did he want Prowl to give? “Alone, sir.”

“Mirage.”

“Alone, Mirage.”

“Alright.” Mirage’s frame was lithe and graceful ( _not as graceful as Jazz’s_ ) as he left. Ironhide paused by the door. 

He narrowed his optics at Prowl. They were too far away now to feel each others’ EM fields, and Prowl found that he felt a bit lost without that insight into his more honest commander’s thoughts. “Ain’t no one more loyal to Optimus than Mirage. Remember that.”

Ah. Warning received. “I will, sir.”

“And don’t forget — energon tonight. I’ll introduce you to some of your new coworkers. Training starts tomorrow morning.”

“Yes sir.”

Alone, he contemplated the terminal.

There was only one file accessible. A personnel file. His assignment was to gather further information and analyze it. Then, based on his analysis, the terminal prioritized several others according to caste and pulled up another file for him to focus on.

By the second file, he’d figured out that somehow Mirage had given him access to almost the entire police, merchant, and data caste archives for his information searches. By the third, he’d amended that conclusion to include some source of information that _wasn’t_ in any way considered public. Personal schedules, private expenditures, gossip. Secrets.

By the fifth he’d figured out what he was doing. He was making a list of the Prime’s enemies, based on association with a known enemy, in preparation for when one of them actually did something to oust Optimus.

He’d also figured out what he now was: Intelligence Analyst.

With that in mind, when the computer took his analysis of Governor Virtus and tried to bring up the file on his creation, Virtue, Prowl instead overrode the computer to focus on a scientist-caste contact named Cloudkill. Cloudkill worked with the military on cloning. There was no reason for the association Prowl could see, yet it was real and tangible to his analysis, but discreet. Almost all the information connecting them had come from Mirage’s cache of secrets. The computer accepted the change and began pulling up information for him to analyze, and when he was done, it brought up General Divestorm, one of Cloudkill’s close associates, as his next priority. 

He noted Divestorm as warranting further investigation, but again Prowl ignored the computer’s suggestion in favor of pursuing a more anomalous connection, this time to Delirium, a medic specializing in correcting faulty programming. The speed and inevitability with which clones diverged from their genitors had long baffled scientists, but it had not been considered the result of defective code for millennia. There was no reason for a cloning specialist in Stanix to be associating with a programming specialist from Kalis.

So absorbed was he with following the trails of data threads, then backtracking when he ran into a dead end to pick up another thread, that he nearly crashed when the terminal shut itself down of its own accord. Prowl’s awareness returned to his frame to realize that his designated work shift was over and he needed to go meet Ironhide at Maccadam’s.

Where, the countdown that reappeared on his HUD reminded him, Jazz would be performing tonight. Prowl growled his engine in frustration. 

 

***

 

Brawn, Sandstorm, Firestar, Pounce, Wingspan, Crosshairs… introductions went around before ordering. Ironhide told them Prowl had been transferred to this post and his training would start soon. Crosshairs and Firstar were both looking forward to it. Wingspan and Pounce started sharing a tale from their training days, seemingly to demonstrate what harsh teachers Crosshairs and Ironhide were, but were interrupted by Trailbreaker, who joined them, seemingly without care of how rare it was to find and maintain military-laborer friendships.

And of course Trailbreaker was perfectly willing to share the details (those he knew) of Prowl’s crush with the group.

Mirage and Hound casually took the last two stools at the table when they came, and Prowl realized that this had been everyone who was expected to join them at the bar all along. Mirage’s EM field was still artificially smooth, but Hound’s was open and honestly friendly and between him and Ironhide's gruff acceptance Prowl found himself relaxing. 

Even embarrassment at the way he couldn’t help but focus on the stage while Jazz was in sight didn’t dim his good mood.

After the first set, a waiter came over to Mirage and handed him a note. The others pestered him until, laughing, he revealed that he and Hound had been invited backstage after the show “as fellow celebrities.”

Trailbreaker leaned forward eagerly. “You should take Prowl with you.”

What? No! Prowl didn’t say anything, but the way his doorwings flared from relaxed and mildly intoxicated to full extension couldn’t be anything but a protest. Far from discouraging the rest of the table, this only goaded them on. 

Primus, he was _avoiding_ Jazz. He wasn’t going _backstage_.

Mirage gave him a liar’s reassurance and said. “Well, we do need a bodyguard.”

No. No. This was bad. 

He stood, intending to simply leave. If he wasn’t here, they couldn’t make him go back there and face Jazz, but Ironhide gave an amused flicker of his EM field and said, “Sit down, Prowl. Mirage wants a bodyguard; you’re going to bodyguard.”

Prime, Mirage and Ironhide, in that order. “Yes sir.”

He sat.

He did his best to remain professional, standing just behind the noble like a proper guard, but Mirage was having none of it. He smiled to the band. “Thank you so much for inviting us back here. Prowl is a great fan of yours, Jazz.”

Prowl locked up under Jazz’s scrutiny. “Really?”

“Really,” the liar confirmed, unfortunately speaking the truth, “And I need to speak with Blaster,” which probably was a lie. “I was going to arrange for another time to meet,” he said as he focused completely on the red sound-system alt, “but since we’re here…” and Prowl wasn’t entirely certain how it happened, but the _traitors_ managed to leave him almost-alone with Jazz. Hound even had the audacity to _wink!_

Jazz chuckled, a beautiful, liquid sound that would make Prowl’s struts melt in larger doses, but still made his knees weak after only a second. Unconsciously his doorwings tucked back, not in submission as with Prime, but in shyness. Jazz took pity on him. “A fan?”

Prowl struggled to say something. Something that wouldn’t make him sound like a complete social idiot. Finally he gathered the tatters of his composure around him. “Yes.”

There. That was dignified, right?

“Because fans are usually a bit more… _enthusiastic_ about meeting me,” Jazz’s smile was mischievous and his field curious. Prowl supposed that was better than any other reaction he could have hoped for.

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Desperately he wracked his processor for something that didn’t lead this horribly awkward excuse for a conversation down the path of just _how_ he could potentially impose on the performer as that lewd EM flicker told him Jazz wanted to mention. His tactical systems spat out a suggestion and, “Why a descending crescendo after the fifth measure of ‘Certified Majesty’?” came out of his vocalizer before the innuendo could manifest.

Where had that come from? _Certified Majesty_ hadn’t even been part of tonight’s performance.

But Jazz stopped, startled out of his intended response and readjusted. Evaluating. Curious. No longer teasing. “Gave it a bit of a melancholy sound. Since it’s an instrumental piece about the rise of Guardian Prime and his struggle to take power from Nemesis the Dark Prime I thought a bit of grief appropriate.”

Prowl compared the Jazz’s version to those he’d heard in Praxus. Bluestreak liked instrumental music. “Very appropriate. It’s unlike any Praxan version of the song.”

Jazz gave him another smile, EM field full of honest, un-lewd, curiosity and interest. “If you want, we can discuss this — and other stuff — over energon tomorrow.”

Was this really happening? He felt like his dignity was in scraps but he somehow managed a measured. “I would be honored.”

“It’s a date,” Jazz said with another strut-melting chuckle but this time instead of going weak with arousal, Prowl stiffened, EM field going blank with fear. _Do I get a date?_ Lockdown’s voice whispered, and Prowl just barely kept himself from fleeing from an otherwise innocuous phrase.

 _That’s not what’s happening here_ , he reminded himself, forcing his processor to analyze the mathematically impossible planes of a simple Möbius strip until his thoughts calmed. Jazz looked concerned and alarmed. 

Lockdown was in the past. He had nothing to do with Ironhide or the tangle of contradictions that was Mirage. Nothing to do with Trailbreaker or his new coworkers. Nothing to do with keeping the Prime safe or cryptanalysis. Nothing to do with Jazz. He had no place here and now. “I apologize. Just some bad memories. I would very much enjoy discussing any number of things over energon tomorrow.”

.

.

.

end

 


End file.
